Her Eyes Searched the Faces of the Dead
by elfchicks
Summary: Lossefir grieves over the loss of her brother. Present time interspersed with flashbacks. First four chapters are up.
1. Default Chapter

**Her Eyes Searched the Faces of the Dead**

_Anarion Tari Culnama_

**Chapter I- A Vast Loss**

Her eyes searched the faces of the dead, hoping against hope that he was not among them. She sidestepped piles of bodies, her features ever wondering, ever concerned. Presently she halted in her tracks and her breath caught in her throat. The dead eyes gazed blankly skyward, the familiar azure blue eyes of her brother. A Southron arrow protruded brutally from his throat; his hands were still groping for it, clutching at the dart. Her own throat constricted in anguish and a bitter sense of loss. A loss so bitter, she could taste its acidic flavor. She stood staring in the lasting silence, the wind hissing all around and tossing her auburn hair about. The tears streaked her face, but she scarcely noticed. All was now so quiet, oh so quiet. Images of her brother giving his farewell, holding her hand in comfort, flooded her mind.

"Don't worry," he had said. "This is but a skirmish. There is naught but a slim chance that I could be killed." How she prayed that he was right, but when not a man returned for a full day, the townspeople began to worry. A scout rode out in the gray hours of the morning to see what had become of them. Lossefir wasn't present when the rider brought back the ill tidings, but she could tell by the great wailing that went up from the crowd that it wasn't good. Lossefir went to the balcony when she heard the clamor and saw the women and children weeping for their lost husbands, sons, and brothers. But still she would not believe it. How could Tinwetar be gone? He was a valiant warrior, confident in his skills and training, and rightly so. His many years of experience had lent him a keen understanding of the way battles are fought and won. He was, by far, one of the most worthy fighter of the Woodland Realm, and the better of the two chief commanders. It was simply common knowledge that if Tinwetar was in a battle, it could be won, no matter the odds.

If only this battle had required merely skill on the field. Normally, Lossefir would not have given up on hoping that her brother might still have a lingering bit of life in his veins, but her brother was clearly dead. She didn't even check his pulse or listen for a heartbeat. He was dead. Lossefir barely noticed the massive mounds of Southrons scattered around him. Her mind was spinning with possibilities of her brother's last moments. Was he the last one standing? Who had won this fight? Why was he dead when he had been so certain of a victory?

She wondered greatly why she wasn't more upset. Why wasn't she a sobbing, disorganized heap on the field right now? He was the only relation in the world that she had! But she knew the grief would come later. This was only the beginning of the sadness she would face. For now, the shock was too new. She still couldn't decide whether it was real or a nightmare! Mightn't she wake soon and discover it all a horrid dream?


	2. Chapter II: Reflections From the Past

**Chapter II- Reflections from the Past**

"Tinwetar, Tinwetar!" the elf called, sidling up to the tall commander. "Our scouts return with ill news. A host of Southrons patrols the borders of the forest. Thranduil bids us assemble the army and meet them in battle, at once."

"It shall be done," replied Tinwetar, "Summon every warrior from Southern Mirkwood as swiftly as you may."

"What of those from the North?" asked the scout in uncertainty. "Will we not need more soldiers?" Tinwetar regarded the elf for the first time.

"No," he answered. "I believe that all from the Southern parts will be enough."

"Umį kano," responded the scout with a salute, as he turned to go. "It will be done."

Lossefir emerged from the marble door of her family's spacious home, her face drawn with concern.

"Tinwetar," she said, wiping her wet hands on a small towel, "What has happened?"

"I am called to battle," he replied, drawing his curved elven blade from its elegant scabbard with a cold ring. He admired the keen edge of the sword, fingering the elvish script inlaid into the side. This was no ordinary blade. It was forged when the world was still new and had been passed from father to son for ages. Swords were not made as sturdy anymore. This blade was forged from two metals: one strong, yet brittle, the other soft, yet not easily broken. The combined strengths of the metals produced a blade that was sturdy, and yet still keen after many battles.

"What?" asked Lossefir, as if she hadn't heard. "There hasn't been trouble for at least a score of years. Why this now?"

"The Southrons are ever warmongering," he answered simply. Lossefir didn't reply. She felt an ill sensation about this. Something wasn't right.

Tinwetar followed her into the house. Lossefir knew that he was going to bring out his much disused armor. It had been hanging on its stanchion for the last fifteen years, unworn, a dust collector, one might say. She had hoped that he would never need it again. But today, it was required.

Tinwetar sheathed his sword and pulled the armor off of the stanchion piece by piece, dusting as he went. The highly wrought armor was not extensive; it consisted simply of a helmet, a pair of gauntlets, and a long, graceful shield. They were extremely light-weight, a great advantage when in the midst of a battle, and greenish in color, to assimilate the wearer into the foliage and trees of the forest.

Exceedingly slowly and ceremoniously did he don the armor. He pulled the gauntlets on, fastening them about his wrist with their familiar clasps. Next, he placed the shield about his left arm, deliberately tying the straps with his strong fingers.

Lossefir watched in silence as he placed the helmet upon his fair head. She lowered her eyes, in deep thought. Why did she feel this dreaded sensation of foreboding? Tinwetar had been to battle numerous times. What should be different about this time?


	3. Chapter III: Back to Reality

**Chapter III- Back to Reality**

Lossefir finally knelt next to the body and gingerly removed the helmet. His expression wasn't one of pain, it was of simple desolation. She could see him breathing, the last warrior alive, despairing over the fallen bodies of his comrades. She saw him struggling, the elven blade sweeping right and left, cleaving Southrons in abundance. She felt the arrow impact his throat with him, heard his last breath expire as he hit the ground and was gone.

She laid the helmet aside and brought Tinwetar's cold head onto her lap. His golden hair was matted with blood that had pooled thickly near his neck. It draped over her knees, a ghastly reminder that things would never be the same again. How often had she seen him intricately braid his long locks in the mornings! Never again. Slowly, she reached for his eyes to close them and tried to look away as she did, but found it not possible. She gently drew them both shut, uttering a sob which she willfully cut off. The keen eyes of her brother would see no more. And Lossefir would not weep. Not yet, at least. She would save her tears for the solitude of her own home.

The field was crowded with many people, some sobbing outwardly, unable to contain their grief, others, experiencing the reserved sorrow she herself faced. All the others, like her, had found their slain family members and were uncertain of what now was to be done.

The battle was so large, so vast, and bleak. No one seemed to know what to do next. Lossefir's eyes wandered from her brother's face at last. She finally noticed that there were other mourners. She had been so enclosed in her shock and sorrow that she hadn't noticed. Though the din of the unavailing lamentations had filled the air, Lossefir had heard nothing. Not a sound. She was present only in body, her mind was wandering. Far, far, away; far from this cursed battlefield of slain Elves. She wanted to forget. Lose her recall of this slaughter. She wanted him to be alive. She didn't care where. If only in her memory, so be it. For now, he was with her.


	4. Chapter IV: The Defeat

_A/N: As someone pointed out, chapter 3 would, perhaps, prove a suitable ending, but it still leaves a few questions unanswered, an idea I dislike in my stories. (Not that any of them are any good.) However, I had a chapter 4 already written, so I decided that I might as well post it. If anyone ever reads this, unlikely, I hope you find it, if nothing else, an amusing tragedy. The chapters are deliberately abbreviated, as I felt they suited the story more. It was written quite a while ago, so this story definitely needs a great deal of work. Perhaps later, when my pressing schedule lessens somewhat._

_Anyhow, on to the story!_

**Chapter IV- The Defeat**

Tinwetar knelt on the plain and examined the tracks.

"Less than a few hours old," he surmised. "They were here but a short time ago. We will follow their trail." The large company of Elves surged forward. For a moment, the air swelled with commands being relayed to each member of the force. They were leaving the cover of the woodland.

After a good deal of marching on a trail that was now growing cold, Tinwetar halted. His sword was drawn and in his hand. All eyes were on him. His nostrils flared as he said, "There is evil nearby." His voice was cold and chilling. He meant no mirth.

The warriors glanced here and there, all agreeing that something didn't seem quite right. And, all at once, as if hastened by the thoughts of the mind, there were harsh cries, and out of the darkened trees bounded Southrons in profuse, racing pell-mell for the Elf-host. Each elf had an arrow on the string in a fraction of a second, and they used them well, felling hundreds in the first few minutes. But soon, and Tinwetar was sensing this, more and more Southrons were reaching them. There seemed to be no end to the flood of Southrons. He bade his warrior draw swords, for the adversaries were far too close now for arrows. Tinwetar brought his blade to bear as the first southron burst upon him, scimitar slashing. The elf parried his stroke and neatly took his head off. He killed rapidly, drifting hither and thither about his force slaughtering Southrons. But however many he and his army killed, there never seemed to be a lack of Southrons. In truth, there seemed to be almost more than before. Tinwetar squinted into the borders of the forest dubiously, beholding in horror as wave upon wave of Southrons broke upon his force like water upon crumbling stone. And it was then that he realized his inadvertent folly. There were simply too many Southrons to be reckoned with. And he knew then that he was going to die.


End file.
